at the beginning

 no trumpets echo in the deepest night

each is alone and must make their own way

towards the portals that let in new day

lacking the hearty pleasures of insight

and most uncertain still the bastard fright

will not much longer have unfettered sway

within this realm nor will the foolish bray

insisting on what cannot long be right

what we find true belongs to honest chance

the golden bloom that in the dawn we pluck

with loving thoughts arisen in each heart

ready the while to furnish our advance

with certainty that goes beyond plain luck

and all the wisdom that is from our art